Sophrosyne
by leuska
Summary: Takes place season 7, couple months after 7x06. "Beckett pushes the lamp out of the way to grasp the box, pulling it towards herself with one hefty tug. It's surprisingly heavy, making her grunt in the process of pulling it out and lifting it into her hands." Beckett makes an interesting discovery about her husband.


_A/N: This story is for_ _chezchuckles_ _, whom I want to thank for giving me this wonderful prompt upon request. It was great to just go with it and find out where the story would take me upon writing it – for once, there were no plans, no layout to begin with, no particular end or outcome in sight. I just went with the prompt and tried to make the best of it and this turned out. It was a new writing process which I really, really enjoyed writing and I hope so will you upon reading._

 _A tremendous thank you belongs to the wonderful_ _l03l_ _, who was the kindest and sweetest in betaing this story for me on such a short notice. I love this fandom and its people, it's always incredible what amazing people you might meet this way and I cherish it._

* * *

 _Takes place in season 7, couple months after 7x06._

* * *

It must be here somewhere!

She knows she put the box in the closet, although admittedly, she didn't pay much attention to exactly where she put this particular box, because there were just so many of them. When they finally moved her things any spare storage space at the loft was free game, and there are still dozens of unopened boxes scattered throughout their home.

Beckett spends a frustrated moment pondering how she even managed to acquire so many things over the last couple of years, given that her previous apartment was blown up. The majority of her most beloved belongings were lost forever, so how come she still has so many things? But she quickly discards those thoughts, because they won't help her in her current search for this stupid box anyway.

She curses for the umpteenth time, grunting as she crouches on all fours, her ass unceremoniously sticking out from the closet as she rummages through various items. Her groping hand curls around a strange ornate stick that appears to be made of glass and when her fingers travel upwards, they glide over a textile oval rim and – a lampshade, seriously? How did that even end up in the closet in the first place? It's supposed to be a closet for seasonal clothing and shoes, not for storing odd stuff without a proper place.

She and Castle need to have a serious talk about rearranging their possessions. And really, how come _she_ had to go over all of her things with a fine comb with him, deciding what to keep and what to put in storage, while _he_ gets to keep all of the junk he's accumulated over the past twenty years without batting an eye?

Well, he better be ready for a surprise, because this closet is definitely in need of a thorough sorting, and this time it won't be _her_ belongings getting stored away, never to be seen again.

Anyway, the lamp is _not_ what she's been looking for, so she abandons it to rummage even further at the back, her fingers finally colliding with a carton and _a-ha_ , a box at last!

Beckett pushes the lamp out of the way to grasp the box, pulling it towards herself with one hefty tug. It's surprisingly heavy, making her grunt in the process of pulling it out and lifting it into her hands.

Something tells her that this is not the box she's been looking for; for one, she doesn't remember any of her winter boots being quite this heavy, and two, she doesn't recognize the shape or the color of the thing. She distinctly remembers that during her move they used only the standard brown ones.

She plops it onto the bed with a hum of frustration because damn, now she's intrigued about what's inside but she doesn't have the time and she really just wanted to search for her boots- Oh, fuck it. She really wants to know. And the sooner she checks its contents, the sooner she can go back to looking for the right box.

The lid is sealed with a sturdy and resistant tape, and Kate declares war on it as she - cursing loudly - nearly breaks a nail off trying to pry the damn thing open.

Heaving it by its handles she carries the box to the kitchen, well aware that she must look quite amusing balancing the heavy box on her hip, probably resembling a limping duck waddling from side to side.

When it finally hits the kitchen table with a loud thud Kate lets out a deep sigh, grabbing a knife to cut through the tape and finally unearth the mysterious contents that will probably be disappointing anyway.

She lifts the carton lid, peeking inside, and her mouth falls open.

Letters. Dozens upon dozens of letters, envelopes and sheets of paper, hand-written and typed, some copied or printed, as well as what appear to be emails or excerpts of online discussions.

She looks closer at the letters and envelopes that are hand-written first, surprised to find that some have heart stickers or drawings on them, and she briefly wonders whether they are old words of Alexis's that he is keeping, until she pulls one out and begins to read.

 _Dear Mr. Castle,_

 _You were always by far my favorite author, but what you did this summer was absolutely disgusting. Pulling a stunt like that_ _to increase book sales… it's just hideous. I never wanted to believe that the playboy persona was true – after all, you are a father, surely, you're a better parent than that – and I always remained a_ _true_ _fan who believed you to be a good person and a dedicated father. But seeing now how you could do that to your child and as a mother myself, I want you to know that…_

The letter goes on and on, ranting about Castle's parental obligations, lecturing him about the complexities of forming meaningful attachments and relationships and how once a young girl like Alexis is so horribly deceived by her own father and-

Kate's eyes fall on the sheets of paper again, the realization hitting her with a fair dose of amazement, because she's just unearthed a box full of her husband's fan mail from their closet. The oldest appears to be at the very bottom of the box, if the slightly yellowed and worn paper is anything to go by, but the ones at the top appear recent, and if she looks closely at the dates on the postal stamps, some of it dates only a couple of months – even weeks – ago.

Realization strikes her: the most recent letters were received only weeks after he was found and rescued at sea. Okay, so a collection of fan mail, selected by Rick's own hand years ago, if the careworn state of the box is anything to go by. It's already full, too full, in her opinion, the newest additions crammed so tightly on the top that they almost spill out from the open box, a few older ones crinkled and squeezed to fit into the box.

She doesn't even think about whether it's okay that she's doing this, whether she should continue. She just can't help it, curiosity gaining the upper hand, her naturally inquisitive – not nosy, definitely not nosy – nature spurring her on, and Beckett starts sifting through the contents, cataloguing the letters, instinctively ordering them to create a timeline.

The oldest letters date as far back as 2009 with only a handful preceding them. 2009 – the year he started shadowing her, the year he started writing Nikki. She grabs the oldest one from that year that she can find, reading it with undisguised curiosity.

 _You are one sick son of a bitch! How dare you kill off Derrick Storm? What a colossal screw up! He was my favorite character, you owed him – and us, the FANS - more than that! Fuck you! I hope you never write anything decent again and die alone, asshole!_

Another one from the same year – one that appears to have been copied from an online discussion – says:

 _Nikki Heat? HEAT? What kind of a name is that? I don't wanna read about some female detective "bitch in heat" (lol, see what I did there?). Who gives a fuck about that? What is Castle playing at? Why won't he continue Storm? That man was raaaaad! Now we'll have to read about some stupid bimbo slut trying to convince us that she's badass or something … I don't give a rat's ass about that shit skank, tbh, it will be_ _nothing like Storm and his SPY world…Castle should stick with what he knows._

A reply to that was a comment stating: _Oh, I don't know…maybe she'll be slutty and we'll get some steamy stuff…you know, like when she holds her gun…with her thighs, or between her boobs *hot*. Hope there will be some wild sex scenes and lots of boobs and "heavy frisking", at least that would be a consolation price for having to read from a woman's POV, right? ;-)_

At the end of the comment Kate's lips press into a thin white line, the vein at her temple throbbing painfully. And it gets even worse.

By the end of the next letter her hands are shaking. It's not just the first five, ten nor fifteen following letters that are so awful. It's all of them.

She looks from one message to the next in disbelief as they continue in the same fashion – angry, vile, abusive words that cut and wound. Full of spite, libel and demands that not even she – from her privileged position as his wife – could make of him.

She angrily grabs one from 2012 and nearly does a double take.

 _You should stop shadowing that detective – she only brings you harm. She nearly got you killed. Shot at a FUNERAL! You can write Nikki if you want, Nikki and Rook are great, but this is getting too dangerous._ _You are only a civilian and you've got a daughter to think about. No woman is worth that, seriously, Rick. There are dozens of better women waiting for you, you just have to say the word,_ _so give it up and let that detective go. She's not even that pretty, just saying. You can do better._

Laying the letter down, Kate realizes she's been massaging the scar between her breasts, her breath leaving her lungs in a rapid fashion. Catching herself, she quickly withdraws the hand, angry with herself. She shouldn't let the words of some woman – a womanwho dares to address him as _Rick_ and whoconcludes her letter with a lipstick kiss pressed against the perfumed paper – get to her, especially years later, when so many wonderful things have happened since.

Yet she can't seem to stop reading, her hand automatically picking up another one at random. January 2013.

 _You're seriously letting your daughter work in a morgue? With corpses? How SICK are you? It's one thing to write about murder, or to run around with the NYPD_ _yourself, but your own daughter? Get yourself a shrink and leave the poor girl out of it!_

December 2012. _Lose some weight, you look like a pig. You're loaded, so hire a personal trainer for God's sake. No one wants to look at your porky pictures in the paper. Do something man, and quick, or you'll die of heart failure before you finish your next book._

May 2013, another online discussion: _Ricky'sMan42: Nikki has served her purpose. She's running dry; the last book only proves that. You guys will see, sales will drop rapidly if Castle continues with this shit series, he should realize her character's time is up – finite – done – over with – at it's end – and bow out_ _before it's too late. He should move to something new, I dunno. A guy again, perhaps._

 _PussyWetForRC: You are right,_ _that ship has sailed. Besides, nobody's saying that he can't screw his detective gf, but he should go back to writing decent literature. Ever since that woman, he's been off the radar – one book a year, seriously? He used to write two and they were better than the one's he's writing now. Less time to write or something? Is she blowing him twice a day or what? Lol._

 _Ricky'sMan42: Rolf, but can you blame him? Have you seen her pictures? I'd screw that piece of ass too, if you ask me. But he could probably do better, I guess – with his money he could land any supermodel in the world._

Kate doesn't read until the end, throwing the sheet of paper aside as her stomach churns with acid, yet she still grabs for another, rage fueling her resolve to go through them all, to grasp the depth of lowness some people sink to in their self-righteousness.

October 2013: _Noooooo! You can't marry her! She's gonna ruin you, man, she doesn't love you, she's married to the job! Buzfeed run an article saying that she moved to Washington for work_ _without you? How can you think she's committed? And you can hardly leave New York, what about your daughter? Is this woman really worth it? What has she done to get you so completely under her spell?_

November 2013: _Man, another marriage? Seriously, you already screwed it up twice, why don't you leave the institution and sacred bond to ppl who can actually STAY married?_

This time, the letter hits the surface of the table with a loud angry slam.

Who the _hell_ do these people think they are? They write like they _know_ him, like they have a say in his life, in his decisions. Like they _own_ him. She is not naïve, not by a long shot – she knows how deranged and deluded some "true fans" can be. But this… This is abhorrent and disgusting, and Beckett is outraged – furious – on Castle's behalf.

As she rummages through the pile of letters and messages, she simply can't come up with any reason why Castle would keep them. Nothing written on these pages could possibly be helpful or worth enough to grant them a single glance, not to mention _keeping_ them.

And the newest ones? Those are probably the worst.

… _how could you do that to your family?..._

… _do you really think people are dumb enough to believe you went missing for two months and don't remember a thing? What are you playing at, Houdini? Did your publisher put you up to this? I would fire them!_

… _I saw your fiancé on TV the other day and although I wasn't her biggest fan in the beginning, her public appearances pleading for your whereabouts broke my heart. You are a disgusting man. If you didn't want to marry her, you could simply have told her so, instead of making a fool of her on national TV. As a cop and a woman, she is going to look like a complete idiot in front of the public and her colleagues now. As a female cop myself, I find that revolting and I am throwing all of your books straight in the trash…_

 _...Id-do-a-Castle-too002: Lol, sometimes I feel like doing a Castle on my girlfriend_ _when she gets on my nerves._

 _JRookFan: Yeah, to have that amount of cash stashed away to be able to disappear_ _for two months so I can drink Mojitos somewhere in the Carribean with bikini clad girls… Sounds pretty sweet to me too._

 _Id-do-a-Castle-too002: Yeah, I read somewhere he was hiding somewhere in the Grenadines, he probably got cold feet before the wedding or something._

 _JamieLovesNikki: I think I heard it was more of a publicity stunt and his girlfriend knew about it too…? Dunno, but they're apparently together again, he's shadowing her and they're living together and all, so I guess it wasn't that hot after all. All planned, if you ask me…_

"Kate?"

Castle's cheery voice calls from the door and she startles, her eyes falling away from the paper she's holding in her hand.

"Hey!" Rick beams at her as he shuffles the grocery bags in his hands to rest higher against his chest, making his way towards her. He drops the paper bags onto the counter before turning to her, offering a warm smile.

"Whatcha doing? " He asks curiously, stepping closer to press a kiss to the top of her head.

She is so stunned, so caught off guard by his arrival that she doesn't have to time to even try to do something about the opened box and mess of papers currently littering their kitchen table. _Fuck_.

"I-" she stammers, doesn't even know where to start. Oh God, it didn't even cross her mind. What if this wasn't for her eyes, what if he didn't mean for her to know at all? What if –

Well, she can't change it now, can she?

He's towering over her, his hands coming to rest on his hips as his eyes scan the table, taking in the black box with its lid off, the scattered letters, more letters…just letters everywhere.

She takes a calming breath. It's not like– She wasn't snooping. She just found a box in their closet and had a look. She's allowed to do that, right? They are married. She can peruse a strange box in her own closet, can't she?

Despite her reasoning, she feels like she's been caught red handed, so she opts for the simple truth. It's not as she has anything to hide.

"I was looking for my shoes," she offers meekly, craning her neck in order to look up at him and gauge his expression. "There should be a box somewhere in there with my winter boots. I put it there after we moved my stuff-"

A confused crease forms on his forehead before he snaps his fingers.

"Oh! Oh, yeah, I remember," he says easily, looking a bit apologetic. "I found it last week and carried it to the guest bedroom upstairs because it was blocking access to other things."

She has to suppress a momentary flash of annoyance at how it always seems to be _her_ stuff that gets in the way.

"I'm sorry," Castle mumbles earnestly. "I should have told you. But the bedroom closet was already so full- and hey, did you know there's actually a _lamp_ in there?" He asks, his eyebrows raised in an innocent and annoyingly adorable way, his attention so easily averted. Seriously, does he really want to talk about a lamp in their closet now, after finding her here like this sifting through the mail he has stashed away?

Her eyes drop to the table, running over the papers that are spread out on the counter, the weight of their hurtful words once again settling on her shoulders. "I was looking for my box of boots but found these instead. I mean, I found the box but didn't recognize it, so I-" her voice falters.

"You opened it," Castle supplies for her, his expression calm but unreadable now.

"I opened it," she admits, unnecessarily. "I'm sorry, Rick. I didn't mean to pry-"

He waves her off easily, plopping down into the chair opposite her, a deep sigh leaving his lips. "No, no, it's okay. No offense taken," he assures her with a genuine smile, and the tightness in her chest subsides. "It's your closet too, Kate. Your home too. Anything you come across, feel free to peruse." He adds, wiggling his eyebrows at her, laughter dancing in his eyes.

It's a mask. A disguise. A diversion she knows too well by now. She doesn't have the energy to return his smile, even for the sake of pretense, suddenly feeling more upset than she had previously realized.

Castle sighs, giving it up, his hand wiping at his face tiredly. "I wasn't keeping it a secret," he offers by way of explanation, some kind of apology hidden there too.

She's not accusing him of keeping secrets or anything else, just like he isn't accusing her of snooping. They're partners. She just wants to understand.

"No, babe, I know. I'm not mad," she hastens to assure him in return.

She looks at the table littered with letters, mail and envelopes. "I just don't get it. Why would you keep these? Why only the negative ones? The _worst_ there are really–" She stops abruptly, her eyes widening. "These _are_ the worst there are, right?" She asks with undisguised horror.

It almost makes him smile again but he appears to stop himself in time, nodding at her.

"Yeah, Kate. The worst of them are all here," he affirms, adding on a second thought: "Outside the death threats, that is – those get sorted by Paula and her staff and send to the authorities straight away."

It's her turn to hide a smirk, until with a sinking heart she realizes that he actually means it.

 _Holy shit. Death threats._

"Don't worry," he quickly says with a lightness she isn't feeling herself, "It's being taken care of. Just the usual deranged people all over again, I promise. Authorities are notified, there's no imminent danger. I'd tell you if anything serious popped up."

Okay. That makes her feel…somewhat calmer, she supposes, trying to push the thought of said dead threads out of her mind for now.

"Okay. But why keep these?" she pushes, stretching her hand out towards him, her heart doing a little back flip when he takes it eagerly, twining their fingers with a crushing force.

She gauges his expression, but his face isn't tense like she would expect. In fact, it's relaxed and more than open, illustrating that he's willing to talk about it, whatever _it_ is. With her heart more at ease, she decides to wait him out, to give him the time he needs to arrange his thoughts, the time he always so generously grants her.

His brows furrow in thought as he mulls it over, his eyes slipping from her face to the piles of paper littering the table.

"I don't know how to explain it to be honest." He says with a frown, sudden frustration flashing across his features with the lack of his usual eloquence. "It's been a long-practiced habit of mine. Once in a while, I go over the letters I receive, the online reactions, the emails I get, and I keep the best and the worst of them."

She gives him a quizzical look, one perfectly shaped eyebrow slightly raised, but she doesn't interrupt. She's intrigued by what he's saying as well as the amount of things she still doesn't know about him, the things she has yet to discover.

 _The mystery of you is the one I want to spend the rest of my life exploring._

It goes both ways.

Castle gives her a confident smirk, squeezing her hand upon catching her surprised look. "Oh, don't worry, there is also a white box that is complimentary resting in my office. It contains all the best stuff, the positive stuff. Mind you, it's far more larger and heavier than this one," he says with a sly smile, his eyes sparking with mischief and it's working, the corner of her lips tugging upwards even as her eyes inevitably roll at him before his face grows serious again.

"I keep the bad ones because the feedback…the letters… they ground me. Help me keep perspective. They remind me - in a way - that the public persona I put out there for everyone else to see isn't the real me."

Her eyes fall shut at that and she squeezes his hands over the table, clinging to him as she waits him out.

"There was once a time when it was hard for me to distinguish that persona and who I really am, inside." His eyes wander to the papers scattered across the table and randomly picks up a letter, looking at it but unseeing. "So keeping them, reading them… It serves as a constant reminder that those people – whatever they might think about me – they don't know me. They might know a lot _about_ me, but they don't know me, and they are not my acquaintances or friends."

He sighs, struggling with the words. It's so unlike him; it's unsettling.

"They are not my enemies either, but there is no familiarity, no obligation towards them. Some days, when I struggle with writing, when it gets too tough, I pull them out and read a few to simply shed the unreasonable feeling of guilt, of debt to my readers that I sometimes experience."

She starts to make sense of it, and she thinks she understands the guilt part. But it still seems like a masochistic overkill for just not feeling bad about procrastination. But he continues.

"Yes, I am a writer. I have fans. I have followers. But that doesn't mean they _own_ me. Nor do they have the right to criticize or judge me. Not about my personal life."

This part, this part she fully agrees with. It's also the part that has her so unsettled in the first place.

He falls silent for a moment as he reads a couple of lines of the vitriolic spiel of one very angry woman before his eyes rise to meet hers again.

"I am my own person. Only _I_ get to judge me. My _family_ gets to judge me. _You_ get to judge me. Although that can get a little scary at times," he adds with a small smile before his eyes land on one of the emails, one he recognizes and has probably read more times than he should have.

Her eyes follow his line of vision, catching a couple of random accusations: _attention-seeker – cheater – cold-feet – publicity stunt – careless father._ She wonders if there was a time when he believed those words, if he – in some measure – still does.

But when he looks up he isn't upset, he isn't bashful or regretful. He shrugs, unworried, a light, easy smile playing over his lips.

"Don't worry about it, Kate."

But how can she _not_? All these people saying awful things about him, about her _husband_ , outward lies and unfounded accusations when they don't even know him. It's like they think he owes them, and not only his writing, but the public persona they have created of him in their own minds as well, when he is merely a writer. A well-known writer, yes, but nothing more. To these people, he is nothing more.

"Babe," she utters, unsure what it is she even wants to say but feeling strongly that she should say something. Because it's not okay, none of it is, and he shouldn't be subject to such outward malice for no reason. There isn't any excuse. And it creates a struggle deep inside her; a conflict she can't name but is bothering her deeply.

She just can't find her peace with it, not in a way he apparently managed to a long time ago.

Both of his hands rest upon the table now, sandwiching her fingers between his warm palms. He gives her a searching look, studying her.

"Look at it this way, Kate," he decides with a spark in his eye, and she feels the sudden, manic urge to laugh, because he sounds like he wants to placate her. As if she's the one the mail is addressed to, as if she's in need of calming down.

She probably is.

"Let's turn this around, shall we? Kate, you know you are brilliant at your job. You are the best there is, a professional at mind and heart; hell, you set the record in becoming the youngest woman to ever make detective. You are smart and intelligent and great at what you do. And still, there are people out there who doubt you. Who talk dirty behind your back. Streets and interrogation rooms are full of suspects or witnesses who don't respect you, your authority, or your line of work, as a woman as well as a person."

He has her attention now, her eyes on him as she listens to his every word. Not because he's turned it to her, but because he's trying to tell her something, something that's been eluding her grasp. And even though she doesn't yet understand what he is trying to say, she is confident that there is a reason behind his words, that he is, in fact, telling her a story. That if she's patient enough, she'll be rewarded.

"Male officers often run their mouths about you, downplaying your achievements in the field by preferring to talk about your looks, objectifying you and making jokes. They make fun of what a stickler for the rules you usually are, because they're angry that you get the job done better than they do."

Even if she couldn't hear it in his voice, Beckett can see it in his eyes now, the simmering loathing burning low but bright under the cool depths of the blue. And with undisguised surprise, Kate realizes that the malicious whispers, the snide remarks and the crude jokes, the jibes often thrown so casually her way… they _bother_ him.

 _Shit_ , they truly bother him, on some level. For her sake. Her eyes shy away from him and she feels a surge of shame wash over her, despite the absurdity, because there is nothing to be ashamed of. She has nothing to be ashamed of.

"I know you've received a hard time for working with me, 'your rich tag-along', that you've had to put up with a lot of jeers and barbs."

His eyes are impossibly blue as he looks at her, his face mesmerized by her. Stealing her breath away. It carries a bit of remorse about what he's telling her, but a lot of appreciation too.

"Don't think for a second I don't notice it, the looks you get, the snide comments behind your back. I know for a fact that the guys from narcotics taunted you for months after you came back from Washington, leaving snarky notes on your desk or the murder board. Even more so when we got engaged. All those not-so-much behind your back whispers about how you soon would be marrying rich, since you – as all women did best – caught yourself 'the biggest fish in the pond'."

There's a slight trace of disgust in his words, even though he's still calm and collected. The biting comments circling around the precinct last spring obviously didn't escape his attention, and they managed to fester deeper than she would like.

Her eyes fall on the table again, on the letters, the vituperation he's forced to endure, and when did this discussion become about her and the judgment that _she_ has to face on a daily basis? He's telling her a story, she reminds herself, but she can't bring herself think about anything other than all the things she thought had escaped his attention but he saw and heard nonetheless.

But of course he did. He's _Castle_ and it's in his nature to watch, listen and observe. To notice things.

Yet he never said a word about it, never indicated that it bothered him in the slightest.

He never said a word.

She thought spending the majority of his time at the precinct on their rather friendly and welcoming homicide floor with her and the boys would shield him from the majority of the mean shoptalk. From that stupid, nasty but otherwise harmless whitewash thrown at her as well as other female officers by male cops who just can't accept a woman with more authority.

It's not a secret that she is possibly the least favorite of them all; there are a lot of people who aren't her biggest fans. A few authorities at One PP, for example, who look at her through narrowed eyes because of her notoriety, the attention she's drawn to the police, good and bad. Even some of the female officers from her own precinct used to make snarky comments about her and her now husband behind her back as they gossiped over coffee in the break room, discussing what the famous millionaire could possibly see in a damaged person like her. Concluding that he would sure get bored soon and leave her for a more interesting, younger and prettier model. For somebody who wouldn't come home late at night splattered in blood from an arrest gone wrong.

It's just the way it is in her line of work sometimes. Emotions running high, gallows humor and a little bit of mean gossip often a great way to let out some steam of the frustrations of their job. As a woman in her position of authority, there's just no escaping it. She's good – one of the best – so naturally that draws attention, good and bad, as well as the occasional jealous rant. A police precinct – she discovered soon after becoming an officer – can often resemble the workings of a downtown high school where she has to navigate through pools of testosterone that spills out into the hallways.

She doesn't mind it though, has been used to it for years, long before Castle came along. In fact she thrives on it, the competitiveness. She's aware of the ever-watchful eyes of her more spiteful colleagues scrutinizing her every move, just waiting for a slip they could run to their superior with. Like Buck Harrison for instance, a rather brute officer from robbery and an unsuccessful ex-suitor of hers. She blew him off at the gym once and later allegedly "publicly humiliated" in a wresting match years ago and he's still holding a grudge against her, probably for being less efficient at his job than she is at hers.

But guys like Buck Harrison are _good_ for her. They make her more careful on the job, more vigilant. She would often hear the whispers, especially on the other floors, at other precincts. But the vile talk spurs her on. It makes her better, fiercer, quicker and smarter than everybody else. It's the reason she has a thick skin, and when those other hurtful rumors started to circle when Castle entered her life, her walls were so high and impenetrable that she wasn't bothered by any of it.

Those walls are still in place, and the thick skin she wears to work and gets to shed as soon as she arrives home each night protects her quite comfortably. She has worked hard to get to where she is, where she can be efficient and unfazed at work, and let her guard down and simply enjoy life and her family at home. It's been a separator, that thick skin; to keep those two worlds apart, enjoy each for what it is.

Her eyes zero down on the stack of papers splayed out in front of her, an understanding forming in her mind.

Castle has told his tale and is now observing her quietly, his eyes full of expectation as he lets her ponder what exactly her sometimes hostile work environment has to do with these letters full of disgusting hate…

Oh. Oh, okay. So they both have sometimes a hostile working environment. Occupational hazard.

She raises her eyes to him again, studying his silent expression. A small, knowing smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he waits, as if he already has a glimpse of the realization she has yet to come to herself.

Condescending bastard.

Makes her want to smack him. Makes her wants to kiss him too.

She does neither.

Her eyes fall down to scan some of the words again, those judgmental, absurd, _wrong_ accusations.

Okay, so he's been hinting at her work, so what does she usually do with such idiotic accusations at work?

 _She proves them wrong._

Her brow furrows, eyes on the letters in front of her, mocking her, and she jumps when she feels his palm glide over her cheek, his thumb stroking under her eye to get her attention as he draws closer to her.

"They say," Castle murmurs quietly, his voice suddenly hoarse, as if it's been a very long time since he last spoke.

"Some of these letters say that I am a bad writer. That I should quit. So what do I do?" he asks and there's a mischievous sparkle in his eyes and something falls into place.

Oh she loves this, this mind thing they have.

"You prove them wrong," she says easily, stating the obvious as a slow grin spreads across her face.

Because he does. Proves them wrong. Every single time, with every new book beating its predecessor, in numbers as well as quality, he proves them all wrong.

She never told him that. What a great writer he is. Why didn't she? But he's already continuing, his hands dancing over the rustling papers while his eyes burn across her face with intensity.

"They say I'm a bad son, an even worse father. A playboy. Not a family man."

"So you prove them wrong," she says, her voice an excited whisper, and he smiles widely.

He does. He is. The best son and an even better father.

She hears louder rustling of paper and when she looks at his hands, she sees he's smoothing out the corners of the most offending of the recent letters with the palm of his hand, his eyes looking at the page, unfocused and suddenly blunt. "They say I was the worst of fiancés, a cruel man, able to leave to woman I love at the altar only to pull a publicity stunt to increase book sales, a man who can't possibly make you happy."

His voice is slow and deep as his eyes slightly droop, as if costs him a great deal to say the worst accusation out loud.

She will have none of it.

She mirrors his movements, caressing his cheek lovingly to draw his attention back to her. When he finally looks up she takes the time to let a slow, gentle smile play across her lips, to let him see and believe the absolute truth of her next words, because there is no doubt in her mind about what she's about to say.

"And you prove them wrong, Castle. You prove them so damn wrong every single day."

His face cracks open with a tremendous smile and a huff of air leaves him in a rush as her heart skips a beat in her chest.

But his eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles back at her, face alight with joy and mirth, no place left for any lingering traces of doubt.

"I prove them wrong," he agrees and Beckett is pleased to hear to conviction in his voice.

She can't help but reward him for that. Bending forward, she caresses the side of his face again before pressing a lasting kiss against his brow, under his eyes and then, finally, his lips. Chaste but sweet, loving. Because he does make her happy. Because they've already been there, done that. That particular guilt trip.

There's just no denying; they _are_ good for each other. Always have been. The world can go and screw itself – they are a great match.

"So," Castle says more cheerfully after a moment, slapping his open palm over the table a tad too harshly, making Beckett jump. "How about we shut these back into their box and do something more fun instead?"

She shrugs, still a little taken aback, a little lost in the moment, in her thoughts. But by the time they put the last letter inside, her mind is set again, her heart lighter. It doesn't matter what other people think about them; what matters is how they feel about one another. And right now, they feel pretty great.

Her eyes fall on her husband, her sweet, dorky husband, currently struggling to shut the lid on the box, the corner of his tongue peeking out boyishly with the effort.

He's a man who probably saved hundreds if not thousands of lives at a great personal cost last summer and received only libel and shaming in return. Yet he can still look at said criticism and draw strength from it. Make it his inspiration. He's a man who always sees the silver lining.

He is _her_ inspiration.

Castle lifts the box, taking it into the bedroom to stash its offensive contents away again. Kate stands, her arms rising over her head as she stretches like a cat, her bones cracking, muscles aching. She's been sitting hunched over the pile of rubbish for way too long.

 _Bad author, bad father, bad husband_ her ass.

 _Bad lover._ Seriously, there was even _that_ insinuation. Ridiculous.

However, Kate thinks with her arms falling back to her sides as she follows her husband towards the bedroom, it's _been_ an accusation, however unfounded.

And as her detective training taught her, every accusation, Beckett thinks, smiling deviously and literally stalking her clueless husband back to their bedroom where she shamelessly ogles the delicious curve of his ass sticking out of the closet, every piece of new information must be examined.

Examined, tested and ultimately proven wrong.


End file.
